Damnation, Redemption
by freddofroggy
Summary: That old saying, how you always kill the one you love, well, look, it works both ways." With Mello, you could be sure that everything that happened was a part of the plan, right from the beginning. Written for contest theme 'Fight Club'.
1. Chapter 1

_**That old saying, how you always kill the one you love, well, look, it works both ways.**_**Written for the MattxMello Fanclub's "Fight Club" contest.**

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****Warnings for this chapter: descriptions of burn injuries**

There was a man bleeding in the doorway of my apartment, and then I was surrounded by gun barrels, blinded by the headlights of the blockade ahead of me. I knew it was Mello's fault, but that was alright. For a long time, Mello and I were best friends. With Mello, you could be sure that everything that happened was a part of the plan, right from the beginning.

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_Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and it can't touch you._

At six minutes past four in the morning, there was a man bleeding in the doorway of my apartment. There had been a knock on my front door, closely followed by the slam of shoulder against hardwood. This is how I met Mello.

He wasn't entirely a stranger to me then, although he was certainly hard to recognise once I got the deadlock undone, with half his face burnt to a crisp. He stood, sidling over the threshold with his hands in his pockets, as if I wouldn't notice and for all the world like he wasn't dripping blood on the landing. It was only when I was ogling dumbstruck at the charred, ragged ends of that sooty blonde hair that I placed him in my memory. We were friends when we were young, I recalled, although my memory didn't extend much further than that, the way I could never remember what I'd eaten the day before (or whether I'd eaten the day before). Couldn't remember paying the rent, although I certainly must have at some stage as I was sleeping on my couch and not asphalt; couldn't remember working for the cash, although that may have been because I preferred to siphon from heavily-padded corporate bank accounts.

I could give you a full synopsis of every video game I've ever played (a rather long list, and a rather large pile in the corner of my living room) and probably deliver a scathing critical review of graphics and game mechanics, but I couldn't tell you what day of the week it is, or when I last paid the electricity bill. I guess those things just happen on auto-pilot after a while, part of the mindless cycle of chain-smoking and late night television and insignificant life necessities that fade into the background. None of it ever particularly mattered to me, and I was resigned to my fate as a recluse from the exacting standards of modern society, until Mello slammed my mundane existence into the fast lane: high-definition hard-mode non-stop-action real life.

He stepped over the threshold, observing the mass of fast food wrappers and empty soda cans with an expression closer to disinterest than distaste, then informed me we had to leave, because there were a few people after him. The county and state police forces, and probably the FBI. Just a few people. It may have been his flawless delivery of the explanation that convinced me – the supreme alpha-male confidence and calm with which the words escaped him, perfect and deliberate and natural. Then again, it may have been his demented-hooker appeal, black leather tight against smooth skin and sharp hipbones, and the contrast of fresh blood. Either way, when I next paid attention, I was on the back of a sleek motorcycle, and then in a derelict warehouse, and he was offering me a bar of milk chocolate. Any other person would be crippled with agony, or at least trying to patch up such horrific injuries, but Mello seemed entirely unconcerned by the matter, even strengthened by it. Calm, confident, entirely in control even with blood streaked through his hair and his skin peeling off in ribbons.

This is how I met Mello.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings: religious themes / ideologically sensitive material, a single curse word.****  
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_There's hysterical shouting in tongues like at church, and when you wake up Sunday afternoon you feel saved._

The warehouse was crowded with people, and I wondered what here could possibly attract their interest. I'd observed some interesting mould patterns creeping along the walls over the three months I'd been living with Mello – or perhaps they'd heard of the cockroach infestation plaguing the corner we named the kitchen, as it was home to a leaky fridge and a cinder-block table. Food was even less important now that I had something else taking up my time, and after a few weeks, I didn't even miss my video games. When Mello was around, nothing else made a difference – I was satisfied doing his work, playing my part in his big plans.

What was he planning? I never knew, but I did know it must have been important. Even attending to the smallest of tasks, he applied an energy that made me jealous of how alive he was. For the first time, I was working towards a goal, applying myself, wanting the approval that came with a job well done. I didn't question his intentions when I was ordered to clear everything out to make space - I followed Mello's instructions to the letter, and now he was stepping out onto the raised platform at one end of the building, all eyes focused on him.

Every part of him was intimately familiar to me now: his face, his hips, his hands hidden in tight gloves of the same black leather which made up all of his clothes. It seemed to blend seamlessly with his smooth, pale skin as he raised one hand to command the attention of his watchers – quite needlessly, as he dominated the room despite his thin frame. It was so much a part of him that I'd wonder if he even took it off to shower, if I hadn't sat beside him as he bathed, revelling in the steamy heat of the room and the intimacy it brought with it, heavy and secret. Regardless of what happened during the day, this was our time. Forget the precarious male bonding of the technology era, this was real, words that cut to the core of everything I was and filled it with nothing but the all-consuming fire of Mello.

It was that intoxicating flame that was making itself known on the dais now – no, it was everywhere, because this room was Mello. The breathy anticipation of the crowd, the murmurs, the charged tension rising and building, the fervent sense of worship for the beautiful creature in front of them: this was Mello's soul exemplified, the very essence of him, taken and shaken and magnified to draw in everything it caressed. His voice was strong and commanding, as it always was – confident and charming at the same time, and his conviction was breathtaking as he addressed the group. "We were all raised to believe that we were loved, wanted, special. Unique in the eyes of the Lord, destined for great fates. We were told that someone died for us, for the sake of our happiness and our wellbeing. What a sweet, sweet lie it was to put our faith in."

Faith. I had a clear memory of that word on Mello's lips before, emerging clear from the fog of steam, caught up in "Have faith in me" and "Trust me" and "Promise you won't tell anyone about me". I promised three times over, and crossed myself, because I thought he'd like that. I could see it so clearly in my mind, when everything before Mello was a blur: that unholy body wearing the sacred cross, even in the tub, he just laughed at me – the same laugh that echoed the room as he halted under the single light set in the high roof, illuminated in the spotlight, marvellous. "Then along comes the first person who treats you like a worthless piece of trash. Then another. Then another. On and on, they have you face down in the dirt, helpless, grinding everything you believe in into dust. There is no glory, there are no heroes in this story. No matter how hard you try, you will never possess what you feel you deserve. You've been conned, like a blind fucking sheep."

Pacing across the platform righteous and fierce and elegant, he was a beautiful sight, and I ached for the same perfection he always embodied. The others in the room were murmuring as Mello's tone rose louder, more forceful. "We're older now, and we've felt pain, lived and learned, been let down. God skipped out on his side of the bargain. God has not delivered. We have received no redemption, only the scorn and mocking laughter of those who promised it. Our eyes are open. And we are very, very pissed off." The cheer shaking the room was suddenly deafening, and I covered my ears with my hands – so many people in one place, and the noise was like a hand reaching into my chest and squeezing tight, a sledgehammer over the head. An overdose of Mello. I retreated to the back corner, blocking out the impassioned speech of my companion, the enthralled responses of his audience, and the furtive planning which followed. If it was important, surely I would know first. Mello chose me, after all.


End file.
